The Peak district

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THE

PEAK DISTRICT

Painted by EWHaslehust R.B.A.

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

GIFT OF
DAVID L. WILT

THE

PEAK DISTRICT

Text by R. MURRAY GILCHRIST
Pictures by E. W. HASLEHUST

BLACKIE, <a SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW

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BEAUTIFUL ENGLAND

The Heart of London.

Dartmoor.

Canterbury.

Oxford.

Bath and Wells.

In London's By-ways.

The Peak District.

Winchester.

The Thames.

The Cornish Riviera.

Shakespeare-land.

Cambridge.

York.

The English Lakes.

BEAUTIFUL SCOTLAND

Loch Lomond and the
Trossachs.

Edinburgh.

The Scott Country.

The Shores of Fife.

Printed in Great Britain by Blackie V Son, Ltd* Glasgow

DA

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Facing
Page

The Wye near Cressbrook Dale .... Frontispiece

High Tor, Matlock 5

Bakewell, South Church Street 12

Monsal Dale l6

Queen Mary's Bower, Chatsworth 21

Haddon Hall 28

Dorothy Vernon's Bridge, Haddon 33

Miller's Dale 37

Lathkil Dale . 44

Dovedale 4$

Peak Cavern Gorge, Castleton 53

Mam Tor 60

801694

HIGH TOR, MATLOCK.

HE PEAK DISTRIC

FROM SPA TO SPA

In Peakland one marvels most at the strange
variety of scenery— illustrations of all English inland
beauty seem to have been grouped there for man's
delight. There are tender meadows, streams such
as must have meandered through Arcady, fantastical
hillocks, mountains that cut the skyline with dog-
tooth edges, moors that change colour every day of
the year; there are two of the most notable houses
in existence — houses famous all over the civilized
world — and two spas unlike each other and unlike
any spas in England.

The folk are genial and ever willing to pass the
time o' day; they show themselves, as in the days
of Philip Kinder, the eighteenth-century historio-
grapher, "courteous and ready to show the ways

i

6 THE PEAK DISTRICT

and help a passenger. The women are sober and
very diligent in their huswifery; they hate idleness,
and obey their husband."

Kinder also asserts that they are much given to
"dance after the bagpipe, and almost every town
hath a bagpipe in it". To-day the Peaklanders are
as fond of dancing as ever, and although no piper
produces eerie music, at feast times they can still
make a very pretty show. The hill country has en-
dowed the youths and maidens with suppleness and
they trip it with exceeding grace.

Peaklanders are shrewd, lovable, and unspoilt,
somewhat distrustful of foreigners — all unrelated folk
who dwell on the farther side of the moors are
foreigners — yet quite as hospitable as the more re-
served natives of Yorkshire. Old customs are
tenaciously preserved — in some places the wells are
dressed with flowers for the festival of the patron
saint, and in one of the most remote villages every
Royal Oak Day a quaint and pretty pageant enlivens
the irregular grey streets. At such times the kin
from far-distant towns return to the old home and
spend a few hours of happy merrymaking.

To my thinking the most satisfactory entrance to
the Peak Country is by way of Scarthin Nick, a gap
through which the old London-to-Manchester coach-
ing road passes on its way to Matlock Bath.

FROM SPA TO SPA 7

Throughout the year this valley never fails to
suggest a foreign country: in the blackness of mid-
winter one might believe oneself in Norway; in spring
and summer one is curiously reminded of Switzer-
land; in autumn, when the foliage glows marvellously,
one might be looking upon some fanciful picture
done by a southern painter with a passion for vivid
colour. To the right flows the Derwent, with clear
waters tranquil before the crossing of a white weir,
or churning merrily between great boulders.

From the Black Rocks near by may be seen one
of the finest views in all Peakland — the Matlock Dale
with its High Tor and its quaintly named Heights
of Abraham, its grotesque sham mediaeval castle, its
pleasantly situated mansion of Willersley, which was
built by one of Derbyshire's best-famed men, Sir
Richard Arkwright. Farther away lie Dethick — with
a quaint church that was built by the grandfather
of Mary Stuart's Anthony Babington — and Lea Hurst,
the Peakland home of Miss Florence Nightingale.
The Via Gellia, a narrow valley, well-wooded, opens
not far from the old posting house; in May the
traveller is assailed there by rustic children who
offer bunches of greenish lilies of the valley.

Matlock is crowded with holiday-makers in summer-
time, and progress along the road becomes somewhat
difficult; nevertheless it is impossible even then to

( 0 285 ) Ia2

8 THE PEAK DISTRICT

deny the strange beauty of the place. There is an
air of pleasant freedom; life moves briskly; the valley
might be threaded by a great highway. No watering-
place has a greater wealth of lovers' walks, of caves,
of petrifying wells, and other objects of interest well-
calculated to amuse and delight the tripper. The
visitor is happy, albeit feverish, and there is to be
seen little aping of the manners of fine society.

Onward through Darley Dale one sees to the left
Oker Hill, with its solitary tree — the survivor of two
planted by the brothers Shore, collateral ancestors
of the Lady of the Lamp. Wordsworth wrote a
pathetic sonnet concerning the separation of these
young men. In Darley churchyard is one of the
most famous yews still existent. Centuries ago
much of the land about here was owned by the
Dakeyne family, whose motto — "Stryke, Dakyns, the
Devil's in the Hempe!" still puzzles the student of
heraldry. Sir Joseph Whitworth's Institute — surely a
boon to the young countryfolk — rises near the road,
as does his Cottage Hospital, and, farther, his house,
Stancliffe Hall, now shorn of much of its dignity by
rough quarries.

Just beyond Rowsley Bridge may be seen the old
Peacock Hotel, perhaps the most picturesque hostelry
in all England. Above the porch of this gabled,
creeper-covered house stands a stone peacock in his

FROM SPA TO SPA 9

pride. This bird is the badge of the Rutland family —
one finds inns bearing the name in many Derby-
shire villages. The sheltered garden is well worth
seeing; it might be the glory of some ancient well-
beloved mansion. Quaint flowers thrive there, and
beside the Derwent stretches a pleasant well-screened
walk, where one may rest with some "well-chosen
book or friend", and hear the tranquil susurrus of
the smoothly gliding stream.

Then, beyond Fillyford Bridge over the Wye,
which joins the Derwent not far from the inn, de-
bouches one of the strangest and most beautiful
vales of Peakland. To the left of this is the village
of Winster, with a fine old mansion that was once
occupied by Llewellyn Jewitt, the well-known Derby-
shire antiquarian, and a singular Market Hall with
walled-up windows. The place lies in a backwater.
One expects to see naught modern at Winster;
the inhabitants should wear eighteenth-century gar-
ments, and should carry lanterns and pattens to
their tea parties. Near by are the grotesque Rowtor
Rocks, Robin Hood's Stride, and Cratcliff Tor.
One is continually reminded of the weird and charm-
ing Vivares engravings that may be found embellishing
the coffee-rooms of conservative inns.

Then H addon is passed, and the old story — ill-
founded to be sure — that Mrs. Radcliffe sought

10 THE PEAK DISTRICT

inspiration there for her glowing romances comes to
mind. Even in the richest sunlight the wonderful
house suggests mystery and romance. The Wye
glides, clear as morning dew, almost level with the
green surface of the water meadows. There is,
within a stone's throw of the white road, a little
footbridge of the kind that one crosses in happy
dreams.

Bakewell, which owes part of its fame to the
luxurious pastry known as "Bakewell Pudding", has
perhaps the most beautiful situation of any Peakland
town. It is eminently quaint, there is an aristocratic
air about the place, and the principal streets are
kept wonderfully clean. At fair times may be seen
crowds of booths reaching from the " Rutland Arms ",
to the post office — booths where are sold gaudy pots
from Staffordshire, gingerbread flat and curly, fried
fish, and the sticky sweetmeats beloved by children
of country and of town. In the marketplace are
galloping horses, swings, shooting galleries, and every-
thing that from long usage appeals to the innocent
rustic mind.

There are many handsome old houses here, but
the finest, Holme Hall, is not visible from the high-
way. The church is a graceful building, admirably
placed, with a tall slender spire, which looks its
best when pricking through a golden December mist.

FROM SPA TO SPA II

Near the porch is a curious epitaph: " Know,
posterity! That on the 8th of April in the year of
grace, 1757, the rambling remains of John Dale were,
in the 86th year of his pilgrimage, laid upon his two
wives.

"This thing in life might cause some jealousy,
Here all three lye together lovingly;
But from embraces here no pleasure flows,
Alike are here all human joys and woes;
Here Sarah's chiding John no longer hears,
And old John's rambling Sarah no more fears;
A period's come to all their toylesome lives,
The good man's quiet, still are both his wives."

The interior of the church is of great interest,
since here is the richly coloured Vernon Chapel,
where lie the famous Dorothy and her husband Sir
John Manners, also the lady's ancestor, Sir George
Vernon, King of the Peak, and Sir Thomas de Wen-
desley, who fell at Shrewsbury. Some of the effigies
are strangely realistic, with appropriate inscriptions
culled from Holy Writ. Perhaps the most interesting
to the antiquarian is that of Sir Godfrey Foljambe,
the founder of the Chan trey of the Holy Cross, and
of his wife Dame Avena. These figures, represented
from the waist upwards, are carved in alabaster,
under a canopy with two shields, the one displaying
escallops, the other fleurs-de-lis.

From Bakewell Bridge may be had one of the

T2 THE PEAK DISTRICT

most beautiful glimpses of the Wye, which divides
there to encircle a green eyot. Against the brown
bed of the shallow stream, sleepy fish lie with scarce
a tremor. The grass of the banks hardly loses
colour in the heart of winter.

After leaving the town, the Buxton road soon
reaches the village of Ashford-in-the- Water, a strange
old place with a picturesque mill. In the park of
Ashford Hall the Wye is artificial but charming, its
waters spreading into emerald-green reaches. The
church of Ashford contains some of those funeral adorn-
ments known as "maidens' garlands", cages of cut
paper which were carried at the funerals of such girls
as died unmarried.

A mile or two beyond this sleepy hamlet, Monsal
Dale opens to the right. On one hand are osier beds,
rich in colour at every season; on the other the Wye
rushes happily over a stony bed. Beyond Monsal the
well-wooded valley contracts, and the road climbs to
the grey village of Taddington, in whose churchyard
may be seen one of the oldest crosses in Derbyshire.
Taddington is devoid of interest; one leaves it with-
out regret, and, after crossing some miles of bleak
uplands, begins to descend to Ashwood Dale. There
the road has several sharp curves, and travellers of
all kinds must go warily. Nearer Buxton the Wye
glides smoothly in an ugly concrete channel, sugges-

BAKEWELL, SOUTH CHURCH STREET

FROM SPA TO SPA 13

tive of a gutter. To the left, a mile or so before
reaching the town, a wonderful little ravine, known
as Sherbrook Dell, with a Lover's Leap Rock, abruptly
cleaves the hillside. Except in times of drought this
opening has a fascinating appearance; it is like the
scene of some old story of gnomes and fairies.

Buxton itself is interesting — if unpicturesque.
Throughout the year it has a swept -and -garnished
appearance. The shops are excellent, as befits a
watering-place frequented by fashionable folk, ailing
and sound. There are several hotels to which the
vulgar word palatial may be applied, there are hydro-
pathic establishments and boarding houses in plenty,
and there is a fine hospital of widespread fame, with
a dome that enjoys the distinction of being greater
in diameter than that of St. Peter's at Rome.

The most striking feature of the town is the
Crescent, a fine half-circle of brown stonework that
was erected in the eighteenth century. It is three
stories high, with an arcade that extends from end
to end. Formerly it consisted of hotels and one
private boarding house, and the lower-floor rooms
were used as shops; but now it is occupied entirely
by two hotels, the "St. Anne's" and the "Crescent".
In the latter may be seen one of the finest Adam
rooms in the country. This was formerly known as
the "Assembly Room", and has been scarcely altered

14 THE PEAK DISTRICT

since the day of opening. The length is 75^ feet,
the width 30 feet, and the height 30 feet. There is
an air of old-time dignity about the place, and it is
easy for the imaginative to repeople it with the
stately folk of Georgian days.

Buxton, notwithstanding its fame of old, has but
few antiquities. Before 1570 the Earl of Shrewsbury
erected a great house for the accommodation of
visitors. It was probably in this place that Mary
Stuart rested during her cure, and wrote with a
diamond upon glass:

"Buxtona, quae calidae celebrabere nomine lymphae,
Forte mihi posthac non adeunda, vale";

in translation:

" Buxton, whose fame thy milk-warm waters tell,
Whom I, perhaps, no more shall see, farewell".

A hundred years later the hall was taken down and
a "most commodious edifice" raised by the Earl of
Devonshire, Bess of Hardwick's great-grandson. In
old maps may be found a picture of the former build-
ing, which is thus described by Doctor Jones, in 1572,
in his treatise on the Buxton waters: —

"A very goodly house, foure-square, foure storeys high, so
well compacte with houses of office beneath and above and round
about, with a great chambre and other goodly lodgings to the
number of 30: that it is and will be a bewty to behold, and very
notable for the honourable and worshipful that shall need to

FROM SPA TO SPA 15

repaire thither, as also for other. Yea, the poorest shall have
lodgings and beds hard by for their uses only. ... A phisicion
to be placed there continually, that might not only counsyle them
how the better to use God's benefyte, but also adapt their bodies
making artificial baths, by using thereof as the case shall require,
with many other profitable devyses, having all things for that use
or any other, in a rediness for all the degrees as before it bee
longe it shall be the scene of the noble carle's own performing."

For the gentlemen Doctor Jones recommends the
diverting exercises of bowling, shooting at butts, and
tossing the wind-ball. The ladies may enjoy the
calmer pleasures of walking in the galleries, and "if
the weather be not agreeable to their expectacion,
they may have in the ende of a benche eleven holes
made, into the which to trowle pummets or bowles of
lead, bigge, little, or meane, or also of copper, tynne,
woode, eyther vyolent or softe, after their own dis-
cretion, the pastime Trowle Madame is termed. Like-
wise men feeble, the same may also practise in another
gallery of the new buildings."

Even in those days men of note came here to
take the waters — the lords Leicester and Burleigh
amongst others. In the Harleian MSS. one may see
a letter to the Earl of Essex, in which the latter
writes : —

" Your Lordship, I think, desyreth to heare of my estate, which
is this: I cum hither on Sunday last at night, took a small solutive
on Monday, began on Tuesday, yesterday I drynk of the waters
to the quantity of 3 pynts at 6 draughts; this day I have added

16 THE PEAK DISTRICT

2 draughts, and I drynk 4 pynts, and to-morrow am determyned
to drynk 5 pynts, and mixt with sugar I fynd it potable with
pleasure even as whey. I mean not to bath these 8 dayes, but
wyll contynew drynking 10 dayes."

The Earl of Essex himself writes, several years
later: "The water I have drunke liberally, begynning
with 3 pynts, and so encreasing dayly a pynt I come
to 8 pynts, and from thence descendyng dayly a pynt
till I shall ageyne return to 3 pynts, wch wil be on
Thursday next, and then I make an ende".

The church of St. Ann is singularly small, and
uninviting of exterior aspect. Inside, however, one
may see ancient ceiling beams and a quaintly illu-
minated altar. The only person of any note buried
in the dreary little graveyard was one John Kane,
a comedian, who in 1799 died because he mistook
monkshood for horse-radish.

One of the wonders of the Peak is Poole's Hole,
a cavern situated less than a mile to the west of the
Crescent. The Wye threads its way through this,
its waters strongly impregnated with lime. There
are various more or less appropriately christened stal-
actites, and the cavern, being smooth of path and
well-lighted with gas, is without terrors even for the
most nervous. Mary Stuart is said to have visited
the place, and we are shown a stalactite which bears
her name.

\

FROM SPA TO SPA 17

Perhaps the chief interest in Buxton consists of
the Grounds, a pleasaunce embellished by the Wye,
whose water here is of a sickly yellow. There of a
sunny afternoon may be seen those who are taking
the cure, some in bath chairs, some leaning heavily
upon stout sticks, but the majority looking in the best
of health. The band discourses pleasant music; never-
theless the gaiety of Buxton is always chastened —
not even on a Bank Holiday have I seen ought ap-
proaching rowdiness.

In the neighbourhood are many excellent walks
and drives, the most popular being to the "Cat and
Fiddle", a hostelry on the Macclesfield road. This
enjoys the distinction of being the second highest
inn in England. Quaint enough are the surmises
concerning the origin of the name, and much is per-
ennially written thereon in the local newspapers.

Buxton often enjoys brilliant sunlight when the
rest of Peakland is plunged in gloom. It is bracing
and supremely healthy; but its sister spa of Mat-
lock has a less shrewd atmosphere. At Matlock, for
all its beauty, one wishes to leave the valley for the
hilltop, whilst at Buxton one usually idles and spends
the days in watching other folk take their pleasure
with becoming sobriety.

(0285)

18 THE PEAK DISTRICT

CHATS WORTH

It would be impossible to find two houses more
dissimilar than Chatsworth and Haddon. Chatsworth
is — although the building was begun as far back as
1687 — comparatively modern of aspect; none would
guess its age as more than fifty years. The stone
is lightly coloured, the window frames are gilded, and
in certain lights the Palace of the Peak suggests a
well-preserved matron who intends always to guard
carefully against any signs of the oncoming of age.
It is tranquil and perhaps somnolent, a house where
one cannot believe that anything of real note has
ever happened. Somewhere there is a picture, dim
and faded, of the house built by Sir William Caven-
dish, second husband of Bess of Hard wick; this is
stern, forbidding, and one is glad that it stands no
longer in this happy valley.

Old Chatsworth, however, was not without its
admirers. Charles Cotton wrote: —

"Cross the court, thro' a fine portico,
Into the body of the house you go:
But here I may not dare to go about,
To give account of everything throughout.
The lofty hall, staircases, galleries,
Lodgments, apartments, closets, offices,

CHATSWORTH 19

And rooms of state, for should I undertake,
To show what 'tis doth them so glorious make,
The pictures, sculptures, carving, graving, gilding,
'T would be as long in writing, as in building."

There dwelt Thomas Hobbes, as favoured by my
lord the earl and my lady the countess as was
Samuel Johnson by the brewer Thrale and his viva-
cious Hester. Probably the Leviathan was written
there, stimulated by the ten or twelve pipes of to-
bacco that Doctor Kennet tells about.

Bess of Hardwick had more magnificent taste
than Sir William. Hardwick Hall, the Duke of
Devonshire's seat near the Nottinghamshire border, is
one of the finest Elizabethan mansions in the country,
a place of great bays with latticed panes that turn
into gold when the sun creeps westward. Her lady-
ship must have loved the daylight — there is still ex-
tant a distich:

" Hardwick Hall, more glass than wall ".

Some biographers of this remarkable woman — perhaps
the most striking female genius ever born in Derby-
shire— express surprise that the daughter of a simple
country squire should have attained such a lofty
position; but all who have seen the old house in
which Bess was born will understand that her sire
must have been a person of considerable importance.
The ruins still stand not far from the stately palace

20 THE PEAK DISTRICT

she commanded, and in some respects the old house
is more interesting than the inhabited one. One
wonders why her ambition prompted her to raise
another so near; possibly it was because of the pro-
phecy that she would live as long as she continued
to build.

Her first spouse was one Robert Barley, of Bar-
low, a little hamlet about six miles from Chatsworth.
Both were of tender years, and he died very soon,
leaving her mistress of his estates. After him she
wedded Sir William Cavendish, by whom she had
several children. Her third husband was Sir William
St. Lo, a south-country knight; and her fourth George,
Earl of Shrewsbury, the unhappy jailer of Mary
Queen of Scots. Before accepting the offer of the
last, she stipulated for the marriage of two of her
Cavendish children with two of his young Talbots.

At first Lord Shrewsbury doted on his shrewd and
comely wife, but as the years passed honey turned
to gall, and finally both agreed to part. The countess
was no mate for a peace-loving old man, and, more-
over, she boasted a bitter tongue and a cruel pen.
She was coarse and vulgar— as probably were all the
great ladies of her time — she professed to be jealous
of the royal captive, she well-nigh lost her husband
the favour of Elizabeth by arranging the marriage
of Darnley's brother with her step-daughter, from

CHATSWORTH 21

which union resulted Arabella Stuart. None the less
she was a woman with a heart, and in her letters
may be found one or two profoundly touching ex-
pressions. She won her way through life; she
trampled on the weak, and possibly her only real
happiness proceeded from the knowledge of realized
ambition. She lived to a great age, and only died
because a frost interfered with her building opera-
tions. Several dukes now living claim her as ances-
tress, and owe much to her splendid business ability.
Somehow one associates her more closely with the
Cavendish family, since she had no offspring save
by the master of Chatsworth.

In the park the two most interesting features are
the "Stand", a tower on the hilltop whence in Eliza-
bethan days the ladies of the family were wont to
watch their squires hunting; and the moated flower-
less garden which to-day bears the name of "Queen
Mary's Bower". The ceilings of some of the rooms
in the "Stand" are quaintly pargeted, and from the
highest windows there is a magnificent view of Long-
stone Edge and Eyam Moor. At the back stretches
a peacock-haunted woodland where lie the lakes that
feed the fountains of the great house. To descend
the hill there is a narrow path with many stone
steps, beside which rushes a merry little stream.

"Queen Mary's Bower", which is said to have

22 THE PEAK DISTRICT

been used as an airing place by the unfortunate
prisoner, rises from a moat near Derwent bank.
It resembles a dwarfish heavy-balustraded keep, filled
with rich soil in which grow ancient trees. A broad
staircase crosses the moat, rising to a locked wicket
gate, through which may be seen the melancholy
little enclosure. According to local tradition a secret
passage descended from here to the old house.
One may easily imagine the captive sitting here
amidst her ladies and working with her everlasting
needle.

The bridge near by, crossing the river which for
the nonce is deep and sullen, was copied from one
of Michael Angelo's designs, and the uncouth figures
in the niches were wrought by Theophilus Gibber,
the Georgian poet-laureate's father. On the farther
bank roam herds of red and fallow deer — the former
descendants of those that ran wild in the forgotten
Forest of the Peak. On a misty day, when house,
and bridge, and bower are all veiled, these magnifi-
cent animals have a most impressive appearance —
they move slowly then — there are no wild flights —
they scorn man and are lords of the whole park.

Notwithstanding its great natural beauty the park
somehow conveys an impression of monotony. There
are few of those sudden tantalizing glimpses that one
expects in such a place, and the neatness is perhaps

CHATSWORTH 23

too apparent. Some of the trees are of great age,
but none are comparable with the giants of Sher-
wood Forest, twenty miles away. The atmosphere
is too tranquil — it is hard to believe that this plea-
saunce is haunted with the memories of noted folk.
Mary the Queen and Bess the Countess might never
have wrangled and made friends in this beautiful
valley.

Chatsworth is filled with wonderful treasures.
There may be seen the rosary used by Henry the
Eighth before he became Defender of the Faith,
masterpieces by the greatest painters, priceless tapes-
tries from the French looms,, books of almost incred-
ible value. It is a house of cedar and rock amethyst
and variegated alabaster, and gilding is everywhere
lavishly displayed. The most ancient piece of fur-
niture appears as well preserved as though it had
been fashioned in our own time. There must be
some charm about Chatsworth — naught there can
ever fade or decay.

Many marvellously delicate carvings, attributed to
Grinling Gibbons, but more probably the work of a
local genius called Watson, adorn the walls, notably
a delicate cravat in lime-wood, which might have
been wrought by some old Chinese craftsman.

Verrio, and Laguerre, and Thornhill painted the
frescoes. In one, Verrio, who had quarrelled with

24 THE PEAK DISTRICT

the housekeeper, immortalized the luckless woman
as the ugliest of the Fates. Verrio had a somewhat
childish wit — on one door he painted a violin, with
the intention of deceiving a fellow painter. To-day
one would not attempt to remove it from the hook.

It cannot be denied that the present house has
something of the aspect of a museum. It contains
so many rich treasures that one's sense of proportion
becomes mazed, and one is almost relieved to pass
out-of-doors again by way of the Sculpture Gallery,
where the masterpieces date chiefly from the earlier
half of the nineteenth century.

The Gardens are as stiffly beautiful and as arti-
ficial as the house. One is reminded of the Roi Soletl
when one sees the little temple with its long flight
of stairs down which on state occasions water flows,
or the canals and basins with their slender fountains,
the chief of which, known as the "Emperor", rises
to a height of 267 feet. In one place is to be seen
a weeping-willow tree — of copper — and much mirth is
excited when visitors, passing to the recess behind,
are playfully drenched by a too-willing gardener.

In late spring the rhododendrons glow splendidly
here — perhaps the best view may be obtained from
the steep road on the farther bank of the river.

The Great Conservatory, designed by Sir Joseph
Paxton, before the Great Exhibition, is enjoyable for

CHATSWORTH 25

such as wish to be transported to the tropics, and
to breathe an oppressively perfumed air.

The road over the bridge leads to the model
village of Edensor, in whose church may be seen the
tomb of two of Bess of Hardwick's sons, who died
in James the First's days. It is gaudily coloured
and morbidly suggestive. On one side is the carved
suit of armour of Henry Cavendish, on the other the
coronet and robes of William, first Earl of Devon-
shire. Between, under an altar slab, are the figures
of a corpse in winding sheet and a skeleton. It is
all very ugly and grotesque, but none the less
interesting as an instance of the decorations beloved
by mourning Jacobeans.

A more important memorial of the past is the
brass to John Beton, Comptroller of the captive
Queen's household, who died at Chatsworth in 1570.
The Latin inscription tells how, with others, he
bravely liberated his mistress from Loch Leven
Castle. He died young, and was probably deeply
regretted by the mimic Court.

The graveyard contains the resting places of the
more recent members of the Cavendish family, simple
and with no affectation of pomp. Perhaps the one
that excites most interest to-day is that of Lord
Frederick, whose assassination in Phcenix Park filled
the whole country with dismay.

26 THE PEAK DISTRICT

HADDON HALL

The best view of Haddon is to be gained from
the road that runs from Rowsley to Bakewell. Shortly
after crossing Fillyford Bridge one sees the towers
rising above the tree-tops, harmonizing so well with
their green setting that it is hard not to believe the
house old as the landscape itself. The stonework is
of a wonderful colour — a grey that changes with the
seasons. It is warm and cheerful in summer; in
winter I have seen it greenish as though covered
with a thin moss.

There is an ancient dove-house near the road —
a square building with no pretension to architectural
charm ; one wishes that its narrow ledges might still be
dappled with proud birds, since then it would be easy
to believe that Haddon was once again a house of
living folk. The Wye glides between; crossing the
bridge one comes to a quaint house with a formal
garden, where may be seen crests in topiary of the
boar's head and the peacock. Thence a steep incline
rises to the great oaken doorway that opens to the
first court. In the wall high above are three gro-
tesquely carved gargoyles which bear the name of

HADDON HALL 27

the " Three Muses". A small entrance wicket opens,
and one passes through the archway, turning to
examine the chaplain's room with its unclerical jack-
boots and pewter dishes. It matters little to whom
this retreat was dedicated in olden times; at Haddon
one is in love with illusions and will sacrifice none.

The chapel where the Vernons and the Manners
listened to their priest stands in the south-west
corner of the courtyard. In spite of the fact that
long ago the rich heraldic glass of the west window
was stolen, it is still a place of warm colour. Near
the entrance is a short flight of stairs which leads
to a dark balcony, used formerly, according to Doctor
Cox, the distinguished antiquarian, as an organ-loft.
The general public, however, prefer to believe that
this was the confessional. On the walls are some
ancient frescoes, and there is a gigantic oak chest
which once contained the vestments of the officiating
cleric.

Haddon has not been used as a residence since
the reign of Anne, although the furniture was not
removed to Belvoir Castle until about the year 1760.
The first Duke of Rutland was the last occupant; he
lived there in great state and kept open house "like
an old courtier of the Queen's ". Lysons tells us that
between 1660 and 1670, although Belvoir was then
the principal seat, every year were killed and con-

28 THE PEAK DISTRICT

sumed at Haddon "between 30 and 40 beeves,
between 400 and 500 sheep, and 8 or 10 swine"!

Notwithstanding that the place is deserted, all the
rooms are scrupulously clean, perhaps cleaner than
in the days when the floors were strewn with rushes.
The two courtyards are kept in perfect order, and
such flowers as grow there may be the same as
flourished in Tudor times. On a hot day a strong
and pleasant aroma comes from the dignified old
yews in the Winter Garden.

The Banqueting Hall and the Kitchens, more than
anything else in the place, carry the mind back to
those warm-hued times. Horace Walpole, in 1760,
wrote that " the abandoned old castle of the Rutlands
never could have composed a tolerable dwelling", and
modern folk, although filled with admiration for the
state apartments, cry out upon the servants' quarters,
forgetting that, lighted with roaring logs in the vast
open fireplaces, and always dim with a mist of
roasted meats and spiced breads, they must have
presented an appearance of very comfortable cheer.
It is easy to repopulate them with merry scullions
and buxom wenches. Doubtless their laughter echoed
along the dark passage and reached the ears of my
lord and his family, as they sat together at the long
table on the dais. But that must only have been
when the musicians who sat in the Minstrels' Gallery

HADDON HALL

HADDON HALL 29

were silent, for the masters of Haddon loved to listen
at mealtimes to "sounds and sweet airs that give
delight and hurt not".

Here are one or two old paintings, and beside
the entrance is an iron ring which was attached to
the wrist of such as shirked his ale, the scorned
liquor being poured down his sleeve. The Dining-
Room near by is panelled with oak, and the ceiling,
whence the whitewashing has been removed, shows
remains of ancient frescoes. Above the fireplace is
the Vernons' fine motto: uDrede God and honor the
Kyng". The most interesting things in this room
are the carved heads of Henry the Seventh and his
Queen, and the Court Jester, Will Somers — to be
found in the frieze of a dainty oriel.

There are no paintings of any value at Haddon,
but such canvases as are seen — the clearings of the
Belvoir Castle lumber-rooms — seem altogether in
keeping with the house. Marvellous tapestries adorn
many of the rooms, notably the Withdrawing-Room,
which is immediately above the Dining-Room. They
are of a kind to haunt one's dreams; they might be
used as background for a thousand old romances.
In one of the smaller rooms not shown nowadays to
the ordinary visitor, hangs a startling panel of a
king or knight, evidently designed by a master.

But one cannot particularize all the charms of

30 THE PEAK DISTRICT

this wonderful house. Of late one or two harpsi-
chords have appeared in the state chambers; some-
how one resents the introduction of the eighteenth
century into so ancient a building. The instruments
displayed here should be the lute, the virginals, the
viola da gamba.

Haddon stands unevenly, owing to the slope on
which it is built, and the inner court is considerably
higher than the first. There is only one third-floor
room, in what is known as the Eagle Tower. Many
of the smaller rooms, despite their cleanliness, have
an oppressive air of desolation, and there is one,
dark and ill-odoured, that seems given over entirely
to the bats.

After the Withdrawing-Room, where there is a
dainty recessed window from which may be seen a
lovely view of the gardens and the river, one passes
to the Long Gallery — the chief glory of Haddon.
To reach the doorway one ascends a semicircular
staircase of solid oak, cut from the root of a single
tree whose trunk and arms are said to have furnished
the planks for the floor of this great chamber. On
entering, such as do not know Haddon are silent for
a moment, as though not quite sure whether they are
in presence of someone worthy of vast respect.
Whether it be because of the ghosts of those who
danced lavoltas and pavans and sarabands, I cannot

HADDON HALL 31

say, but I have never seen a crowd of men and
women- there who did not at first speak with bated
breath.

The colouring here is rich and warm, the panelling
with its carved boars' heads, and peacocks, and cres-
cents has darkened until it resembles walnut.
Originally the pargeting was painted and gilt.
Traces of this decoration still remain. The windows
are excellently designed; the central bay is as large
as an ordinary-sized room.

The dominating spirit here must surely be that of
Lady Grace Manners, whose death mask hangs in
a glass case under the great east window. It is the
face of a sad and worn-out lady, with the bitterness
of death upon her lips. None the less she appears
to have enjoyed a pleasant enough life, since in
Bakewell Church we read that she "bore to her
husband four sons and five daughters, and lived with
him in holy wedlock thirty years. She caused him
to be buried with his forefathers, and then placed
this monument at her own expense, as a perpetual
memorial of their conjugal faith, and she joined the
figure of his body with hers, having vowed their
ashes and bones should be laid together."

From the Long Gallery is entered the Lord's
Parlour, called in the seventeenth century the Orange
Parlour. Here is something that is viewed with the

32 THE PEAK DISTRICT

greatest interest by sentimentalists old and young —
the doorway through which the heroine of H addon
is said to have passed on the night of her elopement.
There are folk who profess to believe that Mistress
Dorothy Vernon wedded Sir John Manners in quite
a humdrum fashion, and that the pretty tradition
only dates from the beginning of the nineteenth
century. But Haddon is such an admirable setting
for romance, that one prefers to believe the story.

In the State Bedroom stands one of those mag-
nificent draped bedsteads beloved by quality folk in
olden time. It is over fourteen feet high, a curious
and weird four-poster hung with rich green em-
broidered velvet, and is supposed to date from the
fifteenth century. The last person who slept in it
was the Regent, during a visit to Belvoir Castle.
This room contains a remarkable old washing -tally
with revolving disks of ivory, whereon one may read
of "Ruffes, Bandes, Boote Hose, Pillowberes ", and
other strange personal and domestic articles. Near
the window is a dim mirror with a lacquered frame.
Tradition holds that this was once the property of the
Virgin Queen. A very quaint and daintily made
spinet stands near the farther doorway; some of its
wires still respond janglingly to the pressed key.

The fireplace is surmounted by an alto-relievo of
plaster, representing Orpheus in the very act of

DOROTHY VERNON'S BRIDGE, HADDON

HADDON HALL 33

charming the beasts. This is grotesque and out of
keeping with the solemn dignity of the house. From
the State Bedroom one soon reaches a corkscrew
staircase that climbs the Peveril Tower, whence a
singular view may be had of the roofs and court-
yards and the green H addon meadows. Fuller, in
his History of the Worthies of England, observes
concerning the richness of this pasture land, that
"one proff erred to surround it with shillings to
purchase it, which, because to set sideways, not
edgeways, was refused ".

The Gardens with their lichened balustrades and
staircases are perhaps as famous as any in our
country. From the upper one is to be gained an
extraordinarily fine view of the principal facade.
They are formal gardens but formal without embar-
rassment; the yews, which must be almost as old as
the house itself, seem to diffuse a pleasant calm. In
the narrow borders grew ancient roses with loose
petals — roses such as were used in still-rooms by
the high-born dames who loved to prepare their own
simples and sweet extracts. The Lower Garden is
terraced down the hillside, and across the river
stretches a wonderful old footbridge, somewhat similar
to those reared in pack-horse days in the remoter
part of Peakland. Fond legend declares that Dorothy
Vernon crossed this on the night of her elopement.

(0285)

34 THE PEAK DISTRICT

THE ATHENS OF THE PEAK

Eyam, known years ago as "the Athens of the
Peak", surpasses in literary interest any other part
of the Peak Country. There, in the days of her
youth, before it was her duty to "rock the cradle of
her aged nursling", as she piously calls her father,
dwelt the bluestocking Anna Seward, who in later
years won for herself the title of "Swan of Lich-
field". She was the rector's daughter, and even in
childhood must have been singularly wordy. Most
readers will remember Scott's confusion upon learn-
ing that she had made him her literary executor.
An interesting figure was Anna Seward, and not devoid
of charm. She occupied a certain position in the
literary history of the eighteenth century as the
acquaintance — but not the friend— of Drs. Johnson
and Darwin. Glimpses of her are to be found in
Boswell's Life. She always impresses one as de-
spising those who without private means devoted
themselves to the profession of letters. Her com-
pliments were paid from a superior height, and she
never descended to the level of the paid scribe. She
loved to patronize, and in those days the humble,

THE ATHENS OF THE PEAK 35

with some notable exceptions, were not averse from
patronage. It is easy enough to imagine her moving
in the quaint rectory, filled with inordinate share
of intellectual pride. After her maturity she lived on
terms of some intimacy with other bluestockings of
the period, and doubtless had she chosen might have
told some very piquant stories. Unfortunately, how-
ever, she had not the gift of conciseness, and all
that she describes is viewed through a dull mist.

William and Mary Howitt are connected more
popularly with Eyam, since they sang, in banal
rhyme, the story of its great catastrophe. For Eyam,
in the seventeenth century, was visited by the Great
Plague, and the whole village wellnigh brought to
ruin. A box of clothes had been sent by a wretched
London tailor, and, when this was opened, one by
one the countryfolk sickened, until in little over ' a
twelvemonth only ninety-one survivors were left out
of a population of three hundred and fifty. Many
weird stories are told of that time of terror, and old
men still love to speak of bones turned up by
the ploughshare.

It was due to the rector, Mompesson, and to a
dispossessed clergyman named Stanley, that the fright-
ful disease was kept within a certain area. Both
these men worked nobly, and their names are still
revered. Mompesson's wife, whom he loved dearly,

36 THE PEAK DISTRICT

fell ill and died. It is said that before the signs of
sickness were apparent with the lady, she commented
to her husband on the sweetness of the evening air,
and thereby convinced him that she was already in-
fected. Her tomb, a coffer-like construction carved
with cherubs and crossbones, stands not far from the
porch.

On a Sunday the devoted Mompesson preached
to his flock from a natural archway in Cucklet Dell,
the pleasaunce afront the Hall. It was considered
advisable that, since the air was poisoned, the vil-
lagers should no longer meet in the church. A
strange sight the little valley must have presented
in those days. One sees again the anguished faces
of the men and women who have lost those they
loved best; and every time they gathered together
more and more were missing. It must have seemed
that one and all were doomed, and after so long an
ordeal probably all wished for death.

Several interesting relics of that time still remain.
Beside the field path that descends to Stoney Mid-
dleton, where the wild gilliflowers grow, an old
fellow once showed me a flat stone in which were
cut several round holes. There, said he, the Eyam
folk had dropped their coins in vinegar for disinfect-
ing purposes, and the inhabitants of the surrounding
country had exchanged them for provisions. High

THE ATHENS OF THE PEAK 37

on Eyam Edge, near a grim deserted mine, is a
water trough with a carved hood, which, according
to tradition, was used for a similar purpose.

A pleasant if somewhat melancholy half-hour may
be spent in the churchyard, where are to be found
several curious epitaphs, the most striking being on
a worn stone near the south chancel.

" Here lith the body of Ann Sellars

Buried by this stone— who

Dyed on Jan I5th day, 1731.

Likewise here lise dear Isaac

Sellars, my husband and my right,

Who was buried on that same day come

Seven years, 1738. In seven years

Time there comes a change —

Observe, & here you'll see

On that same day come

Seven years my husband's

Laid by me."

Another epitaph, on a slab fastened to the tower,
tells of an old inhabitant who must have loved his
Shakespeare.

"Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages."

There is a fine scrolled cross with age-worn figures
of the Virgin and Child, which owes its present posi-
tion to the antiquarian zeal of Howard the philan-

38 THE PEAK DISTRICT

thropist. But perhaps the most suggestive object in
this beautiful resting place is a chapel-shaped tomb
with grated windows and without roof— the lead hav-
ing been sold about a century ago by the descen-
dants of those who lay there. It is certainly a place
whence a ghost might rise o' nights; one wonders
that the villagers have no weird legends concerning
its past.

Beside the church is a small gabled cottage with
a forecourt proudly embellished with oldfashioned
flowers. This is the "Plague House". Tradition in-
sists that the tailor's box was opened in one of its
rooms. A little farther, lying behind a terraced gar-
den, stands Eyam Hall, perhaps the most beautiful
of the minor Peakland houses. Semicircular steps
rise to a fantastical white gate with carved stone
posts, and one may look upon a soft green lawn and
a Jacobean facade whereon grows the Virginian
Creeper. The latticed panes glimmer; the stonework
is richly coloured. In autumn the sight of the gor-
geous foliage is worth a day's journey.

This district abounds with old stories — it is with
regret that one finds the younger generation careless
of the traditions cherished by their fore-elders. In
the days when Prince Charlie marched towards
London, Eyam folk were greatly scared, and their
cattle were driven to a little valley known as Bretton

THE ATHENS OF THE PEAK 39

Clough, and hidden till the tremor had passed. One
used to hear old dames boasting of their grandfathers'
clocks, which in those long-past days had been lowered
for safety down mine shafts. A grandfather's clock
and a corner cupboard may still be found in almost
every cottage. The natives of Eyam are well-read
and kindly — it is possible that the influence of the
"Swan of Lichfield" has not yet entirely faded.

On the little green near the hall still stand the
two posts of the stocks — it is easy enough to picture
the penitent drunkard enduring neighbourly abuse,
and bowing his head under a shower of rotten eggs.
But at Eyam one may be sure that no lasting harm
was ever wrought upon those who loved their cups
unwisely.

On the moor that reaches to the "Edge" are
several cairns, and a druidical circle of minor impor-
tance. From the summit of the Sir William Hill is
what was described to me as a "perfect horizon".
There may be enjoyed one of the most striking
views in Peakland — in one direction one glimpses the
wild hills of Kinderscout, in another the rich woods
and towers of Chatsworth. And sometimes may be
seen the " Emperor Fountain ", rising high and quiver-
ing like a white plume in the breeze.

40 THE PEAK DISTRICT

THE DALES

Perhaps the most startling view in all Peakland
is that from "Headstone Edge" — as oldfashioned
countrymen call the place — at the curve of Monsal
Dale. There, after leaving the dusty road and crossing
a few yards of grassy waste, one looks down into the
great valley, where the Wye runs tranquilly between
broken-edged meadows, with abrupt hills on either
side. A viaduct crosses the stream; to the left is a
smooth lake with gleaming surface. A narrow path
descends and runs alongside the bank until the Ash-
ford road is reached.

The uplands above Monsal Dale are dull and un-
inspiring. No hedgerows are to be seen; the fields
are surrounded by walls of loosely built limestone that
fall in gaps during every rough storm. A consider-
able portion of the small farmer's time must be de-
voted to their repair. The stone is of a greyish
white, and in winter is embellished with orange
lichen. The scattered trees that have attained a
shrivelled maturity are almost invariably lopsided.
Thorns are the most common; sometimes one finds
thereon puny flowers long after the passing of mid-
summer.

THE DALES 41

Here and there are broken chimneys and sheds of
deserted lead mines; those familiar with the country
find these not unpicturesque. The masonry still re-
tains its startling whiteness, and neither fern nor
moss grows in the interstices. From the distance
they resemble castle ruins, and, where the machinery
and rotting beams remain, recall to mind Browning's
poem of " Childe Rolande to the Dark Tower Came ".
Young folk are fascinated by the precincts of these
mines — there are dwarf plantations, deep holes full
of discoloured water, and mounds of yellow and white
debris, on which bloom in summer wild pansies,
golden, pale blue, and richest purple.

Centuries ago this district was the haunt of wolves.
Camden writes that in his time "there is no danger
of them in these places, though formerly infested by
them, for the taking of which some persons held
lands here at Wormhill, from whence the persons
were called Wolve-hunt, as is manifest from the Re-
cords of the Tower". It is easy enough to picture
the red deer being pursued across the waste, and
climbing for safety to the rocks that overhang the
swiftly flowing Wye.

Despite its railway, Monsal Dale is the Arcady
of Peakland, a happy restful place where one never
wearies of looking upon the tender green meadows
and the clear, winding stream. The cottages seem

42 THE PEAK DISTRICT

as though they must be inhabited by a people apart
who have little in common with to-day. It is a fit-
ting background for pastorals, dainty and mirth-pro-
voking as Gay's Shepherd's Week. When evening
falls, the valley takes on an aspect of some grandeur;
the hills grow steeper, the trees become stouter of
bole and denser of foliage; there is no sound save
the comfortable lapping of the stream. At times a
hollow rumble sounds in the far distance, increases
and increases, and the lighted train flies across the
viaduct, and, passing the little station, disappears in
the farther tunnel. But for this connection with
modern life Monsal Dale would belong altogether to
the distant past.

Beyond the Ashford road stretches a weird little
ravine known as Demon's Dale; a dark and narrow
place where one would scarce care to go o' nights.
It has a fantastically unreal appearance; it might
be a robber's haunt in some oldfashioned melodrama.

Cressbrook Dale opens to the right, near a cotton
mill which is less unpicturesque than most of its
kind. This valley is scarce known to the ordinary
tourist, and yet there is no denying its peculiar
beauty. Not far from the mill stand some melan-
choly cottages which a shrewd local wit christened
" Bury-me-wick ". At the farther end, near Wardlow
Mires, where was the last instance of gibbeting in

THE DALES 43

England, rises a curious rock, in shape not unlike a
cottage loaf, which bears the name of " Peter's Stone ",
probably given in the days when the High Peak was
a Catholic country.

The trees of Cressbrook Dale are notably fine,
and in autumn offer a grand blaze of colour. Old-
time writers described the place as a "Dovedale in
miniature", but much allowance must be made for
the imagination of those who loved to squander epi-
thets. Cressbrook has in truth no resemblance to
Dovedale, and, comparison being out of the question,
one may agree it is as well deserving of a pil-
grimage. There are some fine crags, a waterfall,
and pools bright with cresses; the hartstongue may
still be found in the less-accessible nooks, and bot-
anists delight in its rare flora. Cressbrook is always
beautiful, but most wonderful at sunset in winter,
when the frozen valley is filled with crimson haze.

Nearer Buxton the Wye glides through Miller's
Dale, which of itself is somewhat uninteresting, al-
though where the banks draw together and the
stream becomes a rapid there are some exquisite
glimpses of miniature cafions. A road climbs steeply
up to Tideswell, where stands the handsomest of
Peakland churches, or to Litton, where, centuries
ago, dwelt the ancestors of the famous author of
The Caxtons.

44 THE PEAK DISTRICT

Still higher up the river is the horseshoe-shaped
Chee Dale, which is classed amongst our finest in-
stances of limestone scenery. The river and path there
are confined between rocky, well-wooded banks. Chee
Tor, the great overhanging cliff, is about three hun-
dred feet in height. The beauty of this valley varies
greatly according to the season, but throughout the
year is seen to perfection on the nights when the
moon is at the full.

The Derwent valley is perhaps the most interest-
ing, since it has so many fine traditions of the
ancient Peakland families. There are several halls
of considerable dignity, mostly in very secluded situa-
tions, and nowadays used as farmhouses. North
Lees, near Hathersage, which bears a striking like-
ness to an ecclesiastical edifice, is well worth a visit
to see the remains of pargeting and the corkscrew
staircase. Highlow, too, built by the same family
and about the same period, still preserves much of
its old state — the staircase is singularly handsome,
and one of the ceilings is coved with massive timbers.
At Nether Padley, two miles away, may be seen a
chapel, which is used nowadays as a barn, and also
other slight remains of the ancient home of the Fitz-
herberts. A yearly pilgrimage is made to this place
in memory of two seminary priests, by name Garlick
and Ludlam, who in Elizabeth's days were secreted

LATHKIL DALE

THE DALES 45

here, discovered, taken to Derby, and, with another,
Richard Sympson, hanged, drawn, and quartered. A
contemporary ballad describes the last scene.

«»

"When Garlick did the ladder kiss

And Sympson after hie,
Methought that then St. Andrew was
Desirous for to die.

"When Ludlam looked smilingly,

And joyful did remain,
It seemed St. Steven was standing by
For to be stoned again."

There is a tradition that these unfortunate men
were secreted at Padley in the chimneys of the old
chapel; but such as see the place will agree with
Doctor Cox that it is more probable that their hiding
place was in the hall itself.

Hathersage's best claim to fame lies in the fact
that Robin Hood's best henchman, Little John, lies
in the churchyard. Moorseats Hall, a hillside grange
scarcely visible from the valley roads, was used by
Charlotte Bronte as the background of the least-
interesting part of Jane Eyre. It was there that
Jane's cousins, the Rivers family, dwelt, and the im-
possible but none the less admirably imagined St.
John was presumably vicar of that graceful church.
Hathersage is rapidly losing its old charm; rows of
genteel "villa residences" are being built, and the

46 THE PEAK DISTRICT

place is becoming nothing more than a suburb of the
great manufacturing town beyond the hill.

Farther down the valley a strange eighteenth-
century house stands on a thickly wooded bank of
the river. This is Stoke Hall, once the Peakland
home of the Earls of Bradford. The neighbouring
folk in former years used to tell a weird story of a
skull that haunted the upper story, and one may be
sure that they feared to pass alone after "edge o'
dark". Although Stoke has no pretensions to archi-
tectural beauty, its position suggests romance and
mystery. In the wood near by stands a renaissance
statue known as "Fair Flora", a gift from the "long-
armed" Duke of Devonshire to a member of the
Bridgman family, but by popular belief a monument
raised to the memory of a young lady who was
murdered by a jealous lover.

The Arkwrights once occupied Stoke, and as a
child I remember hearing, from an old gaffer, stories
of Stephen Kemble — Mrs. Robert Arkwright's father
— who was so corpulent that his calves slipped over
his shoe-tops! Perhaps it was at Stoke that the
lady set to music Campbell's song of the brave
Roland who expired at Ronceval, a romance beloved
by the contraltos of our grandsires' days.

After Stoke, the Derwent, crossing a great weir,
runs over a stony bed to Calver, then through green

THE DALES 47

meadows to Baslow, from whose steep bridge there
is a view almost as beautiful as that at Bakewell.
Close by stands the little church, disfigured with a
grotesque "Jubilee" clock dial. In the vestry may
be seen a dog-whip, with which in less civilized times
the verger drove out the offending animals. The
Derwent has no gorges like the Wye and the Dove.
It suggests a comfortable placidity, whilst the others
seem young, more vivacious, and reckless.

Dovedale is generally regarded as the mosi
picturesque of the Peakland valleys, and indeed I
know no lovelier stretch in spring and in autumn
than the two miles between the conical hill of Thorp
Cloud and the Dove Holes caverns. It is impossible
to travel either in vehicle or on horseback — to see
Dovedale one must make use of uShanks's Mare".
Sometimes the path runs along the very margin of
the stream, sometimes it climbs toy bluffs, whence
one may look down mimic precipices. Each salient
feature is named — there are to be found on the
Staffordshire bank limestone crags known as the
" Twelve Apostles ", and on the Derbyshire bank pin-
nacles which bear the name of uTissington Spires".
There is also a recess called "Dovedale Church", and
a great cave dedicated to Reynard the Fox. The
"Straits" must be passed — sometimes after heavy
rain the path is flooded; then one sees the "Lion's

48 THE PEAK DISTRICT

Head" and the "Watch Box", after which all is
green and grey monotony.

Ashbourne is within easy walking distance. In
one of the principal streets stands the " Green Man ",
a fine old inn with a striking signboard that over-
hangs the cartway. The eighteenth-century landlady
here was described by Boswell as a " mighty civil gen-
tlewoman". Samuel Johnson often visited his friend
Dr. Taylor at a house still existent. A more impor-
tant memory is that in the Marketplace the Young
Pretender was proclaimed as King of Great Britain.

The chief beauty of Ashbourne is the fine old
church of St. Oswald's, with its well-preserved tombs
of the Cokayne and Boothby families— those of the
former commencing in 1372. The pride of the church
is, however, the marble monument of little Penelope
Boothby, who died in 1791. The sculptor, Thomas
Banks, achieved a masterpiece of pathos in this
simple figure of a tired child resting happily. The
English inscription — there are also inscriptions in
French and Italian and Latin — tells us that the
parents, Sir Brooke and Dame Susanna, "ventured
their all on this frail bark, and the wreck was final".

Beresford Dale, a few miles from Dovedale, although
only a quarter of a mile in length, is almost equally
beautiful, and, moreover, is famous as having once
been the property of Charles Cotton, Isaac Walton's

DOVEDALE

THE DALES 49

bosom friend. In The Compleat Angler one reads
of the "Pike Pool" with its upstanding limestone
pillar which Viator describes as "the oddest sight
I ever saw". The little fishing house used by the
two happy men still stands beside the stream, but
to-day one is not permitted to examine closely this
shrine of pleasant memories.

Beyond the dreary upland the Lathkil gathers
itself together in mysterious underground passages,
and appears suddenly as a fair-sized stream. It
runs down a narrow, well-wooded dale to the pretty
village of Alport, mingles there with the Bradford,
and enters the Wye near Fillyford Bridge, within
sight of H addon Hall. Of all Peakland rivers the
Lathkil is the purest; its waters have the clearness
and lustre of rock crystal. A lordly pleasure for a
lazy man is to rest beside the pools and to watch
the stealthy glidings of the great trout between the
waving weeds.

The streams from the limestone are invariably
cold-looking. A sight of the little brook that runs
through Middleton Dale is vastly refreshing on a
hot summer's day. The rocks here, castellated in
outline, rise to a considerable height, and in May
the valley is scented with the yellow gilliflowers that
grow in every crevice. Something of the beauty is
disappearing; quarrymen have been at work for

(0285) 4

50 THE PEAK DISTRICT

years, and at the entrance to Eyam Dale the hill-
side is losing its rugged grandeur. There is a
"Lover's Leap", with a better-authenticated history
than that in the neighbourhood of Buxton, since it
is well known that an amorous maiden, many years
ago, threw herself from the edge high above, and, as
she wore a crinoline, reached the bottom without
very serious hurt. A small inn marks the site of
her escapade. There is also a cave known as Carl
Wark, notorious in the district since the body of a
murdered pedlar was found there and only identified
by his shoe buckles. At the upper end of the dale,
on the green platform near where the stream rises
from the earth, more often than not are to be seen
the vans of gipsies more or less unclean.

Stoney Middleton village is desolate but interest-
ing. There is an ancient mill dam of greenish water,
and at one end an octagonal toll house bestrides the
entering stream. The village reminds one of Devon-
shire, save that it is squalid and cold of hue. A
quaint middle-aged hall, the property of Lord Den-
man, rises beside the church, and near by is a bath,
now but little frequented, the heat of whose waters
is two degrees higher than that of Matlock's warmest
springs. This is supposed to have been constructed
by the Romans; according to old writers many of
their coins have been found in the neighbourhood.

THE CASTLE AND THE CAVES 51

Until the nineteenth century the only road through
the valley was a pack-horse track — vehicles climbing
the steep hill of Middleton Moor. In 1664 the Sheriff
of Derbyshire, who dwelt in this isolated place, was
asked by the judge why he kept no coach, and re-
plied: "There was no such thing as having a coach
where he lived, for ye town stood on one end!" The
best impression of Stoney Middleton is gained from
the highway that runs from Grindleford to Eyam;
thence one looks down upon an irregular cluster of
roofs, with a veil of light, drifting smoke.

The Delf, a pretty clough with many tall trees,
opens at some little distance from the quaint colour-
washed inn, and climbs up to Eyam, which, from its
historical and literary associations, may be regarded
as Peakland's most interesting village. There, from
a gloomy ravine called the "Salt Box", a rillock
creeps and soon loses itself in the grass.

THE CASTLE AND THE CAVES

Sir Walter Scott never visited Peakland, there-
fore his descriptions are devoid of topographical
value. In the period which he has chosen for his
Peveril of the Peak the chief families of the district

52 THE PEAK DISTRICT

had degenerated into small squires who probably
never stirred more than twenty miles from home in
their lives.

Castle ton is oddly situated at the end of the Hope
valley, where the great hills seem to bar all farther
progress. Of old the only way of crossing these hills
was by the "Winnats", a romantic pass that starts
impressively but soon becomes dull and uninterest-
ing. The "Winnats" would be greatly improved by
a brawling stream; as it is, the very sight of the
place in summer excites one's thirst. Long ago a
romantic tragedy occurred here: two young eloping
lovers were murdered by ruffians who hid amongst
the rocks. I remember as a child seeing the blood-
stained pillion from which they fell.

Peverirs Castle surmounts a steep hill, which one
climbs by a rough, curving path. Nothing of much
interest remains — there is a buttressed keep and a
broken wall — architecturally it is inferior to many a
Border peel; but its situation is amazingly well-
chosen. On one side is the precipice descending to
the "Devil's Cave"; on the other the deep and
narrow ravine of Cave Dale, a parched and solitary
place not devoid of a certain charm. Little is known
of the castle's history, and in all likelihood it was
from the first a stronghold of very minor importance.

But in bygone days the country, if tradition may

PEAK CAVERN GORGE, CASTLETON

THE CASTLE AND THE CAVES 53

be believed, was once covered with forest so dense
that a squirrel might travel twelve miles without
once descending to the ground. Now there are very
few trees, and none of any great size. The hamlet
of Peak Forest itself is exceedingly bleak and deso-
late— a small tract of woodland there gives a faint
impression of how the country appeared in long-past
centuries.

Castleton is famous for a pageant which is per-
formed every Royal Oak Day. Then gaily-dressed
children dance what survives of the morris, and the
village band plays its best; whilst King Charles and
his lady wife, acted by two Peaklanders of the sterner
sex, ride in state through the quaint streets. His
Majesty, in cavalier costume, has the upper part of
his body covered with a gorgeous bouquet, in shape
not unlike a beehive, which, towards evening, is drawn
up to the top of the church tower, and left to wither
upon a pinnacle. The play dates from Restoration
times, and on the twenty-ninth of May Castleton is
seen at its best.

On the way from the castle one may visit, after
paying a penny, the Russet Well, a spring of singu-
larly clear water, whose surroundings might easily be
made more picturesque. This is reputed to produce
4000 gallons of water every minute, and never to vary
in quantity. Thence the path passes some ancient

54 THE PEAK DISTRICT

cottages, where may be purchased postcards and
souvenirs of blue-John or of spar, and one rises beside
the stream to the magnificent portal of the Devil's Cave.
The first impression is one of curious weirdness,
since for hundreds of years the archway has been
used as a ropewalk, and along one side are mysterious
drums, and poles that bear a mysterious resemblance
to gibbets. The light is pale and sad; one can
scarce believe that one is looking upon an English
curiosity. There is a suggestion of Salvator Rosa —
in the design but not in the colour. The place might
be a brigand's cave; one almost expects to hear the
clamour of angry voices. Through many generations
the gipsies of England met here year after year; in
those times the cave must have had fitting inhabi-
tants. The name alone suggests fire and smoke. At
the farther end a little doorway admits to a narrow
passage, and, provided with candle-ends, visitors are
conducted through several strangely named caverns.
Occasionally it is necessary to bend almost double,
and thereby avoid knocking against the low roof. At
one time a boat was used to convey tourists under
the lowest arch, but nowadays a cutting has made
the journey less embarrassing. The guide — it cannot
be denied that the guides of Peakland are of a high
order of intelligence — draws attention to the divers
peculiarities of the place, whilst firing, every other

THE CASTLE AND THE CAVES 55

minute, pieces of magnesium wire. The series of
caverns is undeniably fascinating; but there is a
curious sense of depression, and it is pleasant to see
again the broad light of day.

An entirely different sensation is provided by the
inspection of the Speedwell Mine, whose entry is at
the foot of the Winnats. There one descends a long
and rough staircase, and enters a heavy-looking boat
which, moved by the guide, who places his hand
against the wall on either side, glides smoothly for
half a mile through an artificial tunnel, at whose end
lies the Grand Cavern. Stubs of lighted tallow candle
are stuck here and there — looking back one sees a
strange vista of smooth black water reflecting yellow
flames. Travelled folk are reminded of a canal in
Venice. The voice echoes as in the crypt of some
cathedral. The Grand Cavern is not a little impres-
sive, and when the trap is raised, and the water leaps
down into the Bottomless Pit, one is pleasantly stirred
by comfortable terror.

To reach the Blue John Mine one may ascend the
Winnats, then turn to the left across some barren
fields. This is equal in interest to the others, and
moreover is still being worked for the sake of its
famous amethystine spar, which, since it is growing
exceedingly scarce, increases in value year by year.
Stalactites and fossils are to be found there, and there

56 THE PEAK DISTRICT

is one cavern — known as the "Variegated Cavern" —
which might well be the home of gnomes.

Near by is Mam Tor, or the "Shivering Moun-
tain", so called because the scaly side is always
crumbling in winter. In one of the old Annual
Registers is the story of a hare pursued by a grey-
hound on the heights above. The quarry leaped over
the precipice, the pursuer followed, and both were
found dead hundreds of feet below. On the top of
Mam Tor are to be found the remains of an ancient
entrenchment, interesting enough but not comparable
in point of preservation with those at Carl Wark,
about seven miles away.

Gaffers who repeat what their fathers have told

r

them insist that a battle was won on Win Hill, and
that another was lost on Lose Hill, two of the sky-
line features of the valley. But by whom this victory
was enjoyed or this defeat suffered it is impossible
to acquire any reliable information. As a rule they
are attributed to the Romans and to Oliver Cromwell.
At Bradwell, a somewhat drab village a mile or
two from Castleton, is a lesser-known but equally
interesting cavern. Poets have first seen the light
at Bradwell, and the names of the various curiosities
were evidently bestowed by a well-read local genius.
One may see there, not only Calypso's Cave, but the
Straits of Gibraltar and Lot's Wife.

THE HILLS AND MOORS 57

Such as enjoy weird tremors and love to imagine
tales of oldfashioned sensationalism will find Castleton
vividly interesting. There, in spite of the new life
brought of late years by the railway, it is still pos-
sible to believe oneself in the brave old days of
romance.

THE HILLS AND MOORS

Kinderscout, which rises to a height of 2088 feet,
is the loftiest Peakland mountain. This is best
approached by way of the Ashop valley, a deep green
hollow, sparsely wooded, that starts from the junction
of the Ashop and the Derwent. On the hillsides are
to be seen grey farmsteads as remotely situated as
Wuthering Heights, and only reached by rough
stony field tracks. In some places sledges are used
instead of carts for the transport of hay and bracken.
An old Roman road runs along the ridge to the left,
and descends into the Edale valley south of a stone
guide post that was reared in 1737.

The Ashop cannot be described as beautiful; it
is a wild little river, shallow in summer but after
storms flowing in high flood. The water is stained
sherry-brown with the peat from the uplands. There

58 THE PEAK DISTRICT

is a bleak inn called the "Snake" just before the
road rises for its steep climb in the direction of
Glossop. This and the " Cat and Fiddle ", near Buxton,
are the loneliest houses of refreshment in the district.

Half a mile beyond the "Snake" a path leads
from the highway, descends to the stream, and then
rises to the heart of the moors. The scenery is im-
pressively grand, but not lovely; although in winter,
when the snow wreaths are curled and twisted
mysteriously, there is an indescribable, awe-inspir-
ing charm. In certain lights the moors are even
weirder than the winding caves of Castleton. There,
when dusk of evening falls, one can readily forget the
stress of modern life, and believe oneself in the days
when metal was unknown and men slew men with
weapons of stone. The last cries of grouse and
snipe sound hollow and uncanny; the heavy beating
of eagle's wings would cause no surprise. At the
approach of human footsteps, sheep glide from the
shadows, gather together in little bands, and stam-
pede into the farther darkness.

Even on a warm summer's day the silence and
the solitude are strangely disconcerting. The earth
seems blacker than elsewhere, the rank grass less
fresh and green. The tracks thread mosses of ex-
treme danger — I myself have seen a brave man well-
nigh swallowed by the thick and evil-smelling mud.

THE HILLS AND MOORS 59

Doubtless through the centuries Kinderscout has
been the scene of many unknown tragedies.

There is a famous cataract, known as the Kinder
Downfall, which after heavy rain is visible from a
distance of ten miles. This is best visited after a
month of frost, glittering in the sunlight like molten
silver. Of a cavern not far away are told several
curious and thrilling stories.

On the " edges " are seen fantastical rocks. As one
walks down the Ashop valley one catches a glimpse
of the " Coach and Horses " high above— a singular
group that appears to move and move and pass out
of sight. Above the neighbouring valley of the upper
Derwent are others with homelier names, such as
the " Cakes of Bread", the "Salt Cellar", and the
"Lost Lad". The old folk who christened these
landmarks had a just sense of comparison. Another
of these isolated masses of stone is the " Eagle Stone ",
a great pile not unlike a cornstack, that stands in
dignified solitude. There is a tradition that, centuries
ago, no lad of Baslow, the nearest village, was per-
mitted to marry until he had climbed to the top.

Twenty miles away to the south-west are the
finest rock ridges of the Peak — the " Roches " that
dominate the moorlands above Leek. There is
a narrow ravine known as " Ludchurch ", which is
said to have been a Lollard's hiding place. The

60 THE PEAK DISTRICT

view from the sharply descending road is very fine.
In the distance lies the manufacturing town, nowise
unpleasing to the eye even when more closely
approached. Usually one sees it lightly covered with
a haze of bluish smoke.

As a moorland vignette I know of no place more
perfect than the valley of the Burbage, a brown
lively stream that gathers together on the uplands
between Sheffield and Hathersage. At some slight
distance is Longshaw Lodge, the shooting box of
the Duke of Rutland, which boasts perhaps the best
situation of any house in the district. With its
heavy background of trees this quaint irregular place
scarce seems real — one might be looking upon some
strange old woodcut. Within a stone's throw of
Longshaw stands "Fox House", a hostelry which,
built in the early part of the nineteenth century,
might have come down to us unaltered from the
days of Elizabeth. The stonework is grey and
massive ; the windows are of diamond lattice. Thence
the road slopes down to the stream, curving abruptly
at the one-arched bridge just before the grotesque
block of gritstone aptly christened the "Toad's
Mouth". Winter and summer alike this valley is full
of restful beauty. High above are to be seen the
ridge of Higgar Tor, where the daylight creeps through
the arched stones, and the ancient stronghold of

THE HILLS AND MOORS 6l

Carl Wark, an oblong enclosure covering several
acres. These heights are seldom visited, the moor-
land here being strictly preserved. From the heathy
banks to the right of the road descend little springs
of surpassing clearness. The waters of these are
sweet and refreshing; but if one drinks of the Bur-
bage a bitter taste remains.

A mile or so beyond the "Toad's Mouth" the
road reaches Millstone Edge Nick, a gap between
rough gritstone rocks, where one looks down upon
what is regarded as one of the finest views in
England. Far below glides the Derwent, only visible
here and there — notably at the bridge of Leadmill. In
the distance is the Hope valley, with Win Hill and
Lose Hill and Mam Tor. The dale of the young
Derwent, that descends from the heart of the moor-
land country, opens to the right; one sees along
the skyline the ridges of Bamford Edge. Hathersage
lies tranquilly in a hollow, its fine spire dominating
the ancient grey-roofed houses.

To the left, near at hand, is an immense quarry, a
place of rich colouring, which although it has muti-
lated the hillside has taken but little from its beauty.
Far below one sees toy trains running upon lines no
bigger than spiders' threads. For some mysterious
reason the noise of whistling and the sight of escaping
steam do not effect one's enjoyment in this prospect

62 THE PEAK DISTRICT

— perhaps because the contours are too fine to be
affected by utilitarianism.

Above Grindleford the straight line of the Sir
William road climbs to the summit of Eyam Moor,
with its neighbouring mine chimneys of Ladywash
and New Engine for striking landmarks. Once an
important highway, this road is no longer frequented
save by farmers. It is sandy, deep-rutted; on the
green banks grow wild thyme and many-coloured
pansies. There also may be found the curious little
moonwort, of which Culpeper writes that it is uan
herb which will open locks and unshoe such horses
as tread upon it. This some laugh to scorn, and
these no small fools neither; but country people, that
I know, call it Unshoe the Horse."

Eyam Moor has none of the depressing grandeur
of the Kinderscout region; its beauty is softer and
more ingratiating. A place to walk over in the still
hours of a summer's night, when the grey paths are
only faintly visible, and there is no sound save the
whirring of the goatsucker's wings. And at dawn
one hears the cold singing of the larks overhead, as
they welcome the rising sun, as yet unseen by mortal
folk. Of an evening, too, in winter, one sees the
clouds gathering over the uplands of Middleton Moor,
like goblins making their way towards some mon-
strous ark.

THE HILLS AND MOORS 63

Farther down the valley uprises Froggatt Edge,
with a magnificent range of nutbrown rocks. The
rowan grows luxuriantly upon the steep slopes, and
in autumn there is a glorious display of fox-coloured
bracken. Far below, the river moves sleepily be-
tween loamy banks, forced into servitude for the
Calver mill. After the weir it dances, like a child
released from tedious school, through pleasant mea-
dow, past St. Mary's Nook, past the hall of Bubnell,
which is mentioned in The Compleat Angler, and
soon, quiet and dignified, glides within a bowshot of
the great house of Chatsworth.

The Barbrook, which rises on the moors beyond
Curbar Edge, is one of the shortest and prettiest of
the Peakland streams. Near the lately constructed
reservoir, which has all the appearance of a natural
lake, it passes down a heathery little clough, at
whose end is to be seen a scattered grove of silver
birch and larch, then, dipping under a rough bridge,
runs along a green stretch by the road to an old
mill dam. After leaving this it gambols through a
ravine that might have been stolen from the High-
lands, and soon reaches the Nether End of Baslow,
where it enters the park, to mingle unperceived with
the Derwent.

The heights of Longstone Edge are mournful and
suggestive. A long cutting, called the "Deep Rake",

64 THE PEAK DISTRICT

made by the mining folk of old time, stretches here,
its scarred sides steep and coldly coloured. At in-
tervals are pools of great depth and sinister aspect,
and in a grove that crowns the summit stands a
farmhouse with tragical memories. Across this up-
land an ancient bridle track, but little used nowadays,
crosses from Middleton Dale to the tranquil fields of
Hassop, one of the most interesting estates in the
whole of Peakland.

Perhaps the dreariest moorland of all stretches
along the hilltop above Beeley and Chatsworth. This
is intolerably bleak, and only in late autumn seems
to warm into life. It is criss-crossed with rough
sandy roads — roads with worn pillars for milestones,
whereon are carved ghastly skeleton hands and ill-
spelt names of towns. All is silent save for the wail
of peewits and the harrowing whistle of curlews. Here
and there stand small farmsteads, the gritstone black-
ened with age. Unlike the village folk, the inhabi-
tants of this remote country are not house-proud;
apparently they trouble little about the outer or inner
embellishment of their homes. It is in such out-of-
the-way places that one hears the dialect to perfec-
tion, and learns, if one is so minded, much strange
wisdom acquired by many generations spent in isola-
tion from the living world.

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